


Love and Butterflies

by SoDoRoses (FairyChess)



Series: Greek Myths Verse [5]
Category: Cartoon Therapy (Web Series), Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ancient Greek Religion & Lore Fusion, Arranged Marriage, Inspired by Eros and Psyche (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), M/M, and its too busy being smitten with corbin to notice how sus this is, sloane has one (1) brain cell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-23
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:41:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26613886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FairyChess/pseuds/SoDoRoses
Summary: Corbin’s a practical person.There is absolutely nothing practical about… any of this.
Relationships: Corbin/Sloane (Cartoon Therapy), Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Series: Greek Myths Verse [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1362088
Comments: 17
Kudos: 150
Collections: Marin's Favorite Fics of all Time





	Love and Butterflies

**Author's Note:**

> here we go yall a corbin/sloane Eros and Psyche AU that nobody asked for but you are getting anyway
> 
> thank you to @trivia-goddess for beta reading yet another monster of a oneshot lol

People have been telling Corbin he’s handsome pretty much since puberty hit, which would be nice, maybe, if Corbin cared about things like being handsome and empty compliments.

Corbin does not care about either of those things – Corbin cares about there being enough food on the table for him and his mother, cares about the corner of the roof that leaks and how he only kind of knows how to fix it so it keeps coming back, cares about bringing home enough wood to keep the fire going through the cold nights.

So no, Corbin doesn’t care that he’s apparently handsome. He’s practical like that.

Everyone else seems to care too much, in his opinion. _Way_ too much. “Stop him in the middle of the market and compliment him for uncomfortably long minutes,” too much. “Say stuff that’s just this side of creepy,” too much. “Make really uncomfortable comparisons that are gonna get Corbin _smote,”_ too much.

He can’t exactly hold it against the kids – the compliments always seem a lot more sincere and a lot less uncomfortable coming from children – but accepting the little flower crown they give him is probably not his smartest idea.

It starts with one.

“You could rival the God of Spring today,”

“Don’t say that,” Corbin snaps, yanking the crown off his head and startling the children, “Are you crazy? You want us both struck dead when he takes offense?”

The lip curl of distaste, the eye roll – it’s all familiar.

(That’s the other thing they say, the reason Corbin is sure no ones ever going to try to marry him in spite of the apparent _beauty –_ they say it’s a shame, that such a pretty face comes attached to such a surly, unhappy worrywart of a person.)

The man must share his observation with someone else. It starts following Corbin around town, more offerings of flowers to braid into his curly hair or wear as crowns. Corbin refuses them all, snaps at them to stop, to shut up, don’t they _know_ what _happens_ to people who say this stuff-

They don’t stop. And that’s the final rub, isn’t it.

Everyone wants to look – nobody ever wants to listen.

—

A stranger comes to the house in a storm and Corbin wants to turn them away, because this is how the stories always go, isn’t it, someone in disguise bringing some kind of _nonsense_ with them, a quest or a boon or _something._

“Turning him away is just as likely to cause a problem if you’re right,” Mom mutters, and well, Corbin can’t exactly argue that. He bites his tongue, and stretches the soup with water, and tries not to let his mouth curl too bitterly.

And of course, because the dominoes of fate are already set up and Corbin’s just along for the ride as always, the stranger asks about the damn _flower thing._

“They say you look like the God of Spring himself in flowers,” he says, “Is it true?”

“Of course not,” snaps Corbin, “I don’t come close. People exaggerate,”

Mom tuts, and sighs, and says exactly the wrong thing.

“You’re always so modest, honey,” she says, “You’re very handsome. Can’t you accept when people compliment you?”

And he wants to snap again – wants to argue with her, ask her why she can never _see_ all the things potentially going wrong the way Corbin does, why she makes him feel like he has to rely on himself alone to know when something is a bad idea.

But he loves his mom. He doesn’t _want_ to argue with her.

He grits his teeth behind his lips and nods tightly.

“Thank you,” he forces out.

That too, is exactly the wrong thing.

Smoke pours out of the man’s – the oracle’s – mouth, and all Corbin can hear is his heartbeat and the bitter mantra of _I told you, I told you, I told you all but nobody ever listens-_

And then the oracle speaks, and Corbin’s future goes up like so much smoke.

—

Corbin doesn’t let his mother walk him to the mountain. He regrets it halfway there, but he can’t turn around.

He’s dressed in his best clothes, _wedding_ clothes, with the sharpest knife in the house hidden in the folds of his tunic.

_You will climb to the crest of the mountain, and there you will find your husband – a monster feared_ _by mortals_ _and gods alike._

Well. Fine. Corbin has no hope of winning against… whatever it is, but if he can land one good stab it will, at least, make him feel a little better about dying. At the minimum, the knife might scratch the monster’s throat if it swallows him whole.

There is no monster on top of the mountain.

Or at least, there isn’t one immediately apparent – what there is, is a _very large castle_ , which as he gets closer Corbin realizes seems to be made of _silver,_ withcrystal windows, and he’s pretty sure the gravel on this pathway is gradually becoming _gemstones_ and he needs to sit down.

He sits down.

The castle doesn’t shimmer away like a mirage or do anything other than stay stubbornly glittering, and eventually Corbin stands up again on shaking knees and makes his way to the door.

It opens without him touching it. Slowly, Corbin steps inside, tense, waiting for something to come lunging out of the few shadows in this shining place, but there’s nothing.

There’s movement in one of the far doorways, and Corbin’s hand darts to the knife, but what enters isn’t a monster – it’s a single, pale blue butterfly.

As it gets closer, he tenses again, because it’s no _normal_ butterfly. It’s huge, each of wings as big as Corbin’s hand splayed wide. It alights on a small table between them, watching him.

As he watches, tense and jumpy, more identical insects appear from the other doors, and a few from the windows. They crowd him suddenly, and Corbin’s mind jumps to swarms of cursed insects, gripping the knife to swipe at the air in front of him.

But they don’t attack, and up close they don’t look like they have teeth, so Corbin feels a little sheepish. They herd him like lamb through the room, in the door the first butterfly came through.

There’s food on a long table – more food than he has any hope of eating all on his own, but even as he hesitates the butterflies keep fluttering against him, gently ushering him towards it. He reaches the table and as one they all perch, all over the table and the single chair and a few on the floor. Waiting.

He _is_ hungry – the walk to and up the mountain was long and late-spring hot, and there is plenty of bread and meat and water that somehow, when Corbin touched the cup, is perfectly cool, even as it’s been sitting here for who knows how long.

He guesses if they were going to poison him, there are certainly worse ways to die.

—

He’s _not_ going to get attached to the butterflies.

It doesn’t matter that they seem friendly and amicable, or that the sensation of being gently nudged from room to room by impossibly soft wings is actually pretty pleasant. It doesn’t matter that they seem to know anything he wants without him saying – more food, water, less uncomfortable clothes to change into – and immediately lead him to a room that miraculously contains it every time.

There’s a monster up here, somewhere. A monster Corbin’s apparently married to, which is starting to seem like it’s not going to result in instant, painful death, but is obviously still not _good._

As night begins to fall, the butterflies begin to push him, this time with no prompting, and Corbin’s stomach drops all the way to the floor.

The bedroom is empty, is the first thing he notices, which is a relief. It also has no windows, which fills Corbin with some kind of confused dread.

So it’s dim as he crosses the room tentatively, reaching the bed and touching it carefully like it might be a monster in disguise. It isn’t – just a normal, albeit very nice bed.

One of the butterflies alights on the pillow, looking at him, and Corbin cautiously climbs into the bed, his heart hammering in his throat. The butterfly leaves, and Corbin tries to ignore the way his eyes are stinging at being left alone in the dark.

Somehow – a spell? Something in the food? - he falls asleep, in spite of the fear.

He wakes up and the room has gone from dim to pitch-black, and there is _someone else in the bed._

Corbin freezes, holding his breath and dead silent. Frantically, he tries to remember where the knife is and curses internally when he realizes it must have come loose while he was asleep.

“Hey,”

Corbin jumps like he’s been stuck with a pin, and the soft, quiet voice laughs.

“Sorry,” he says, “I didn’t mean to startle you,”

Corbin doesn’t say anything, because what can he say? This guy climbed into bed with him (though he did appear to keep his distance; they aren’t touching) while he was asleep, and there’s a very short, very alarming list of reasons he would do that. Most of them mean this guy is probably his new husband – which means he’s also a terrifying monster.

He doesn’t really sound like one.

“Cat got your tongue?” teases the voice.

“No,” Corbin snaps, regretting it instantly.

“Oof,” says the voice, “You, uh. Don’t seem super happy to be here,”

Corbin thinks he should be commended for his wisdom in _keeping his mouth firmly shut_ in response to that statement.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” he continues, “If that’s what you’re worried about. I would never,”

Corbin’s eyes narrow suspiciously, but he’s fairly certain it can’t be seen in the dark.

“No, really,” he laughs, “Don’t look so dubious,”

Well. Monster-husband can, apparently, see in the dark. _Great._

“… Are you going to say anything?”

The question is almost forlorn, and makes the tiniest curl of guilt squirm in Corbin’s stomach.

“Maybe,” he mutters.

Voice-in-the-dark laughs.

It’s a _problem._

It’s the kind of free, buoyant laughter that makes Corbin want to laugh too, which almost never happens. He bites down on the inside of his cheek to avoid it, and the laughter peters out.

“Well, okay,” says the voice, “You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to, Corbin,”

“How do you know my name?”

The voice is quiet for a long moment.

“Why wouldn’t I? We’re married,”

“I don’t exactly know _yours,_ ” Corbin deadpans before he can think about it.

Another of those bright, brilliant laughs, and for one insane second Corbin thinks it’s going to light up the room. But it doesn’t, of course, because that’s some seriously sappy, poetic nonsense, and Corbin is not gonna get drawn into getting eaten by some kind of siren-monster because of a pretty laugh.

“No, I guess not,” he laughs, “But you can call me anything you like,”

“What if I decide I don’t want to call you anything?” says Corbin sharply.

“Husband works, if nothing else,” he replies softly.

Corbin doesn’t respond for a long moment, because – because voice-in-the-dark here really _does_ sound… happy. Like he really did want to marry Corbin, not just steal him for a snack.

Which. Is not _necessarily_ an improvement, but does at least mean Corbin’s not about to immediately die.

“… Okay,” he replies, only slightly less wary, “Husband,”

Corbin feels like he can _hear_ his husband smiling, which is annoyingly endearing. Corbin freezes as he hears a hand moving across the blankets, and then there is a soft, warm palm cradling his face.

“Go to sleep, dearest,” says his husband, “Nothing will harm you here,”

In spite of himself, Corbin does.

—

Over the course of weeks, Corbin grows… curiously relaxed.

The first night, he wakes up alone and wonders if it was all some kind of odd dream – he goes through his day with the butterflies, wondering if he imagined the gentle soft, the palm on his face, the promise of safety.

His husband returns the second night, and every night after. He barely touches Corbin, just brushes of fingertips and the occasional held hand, which somehow makes Corbin blush more than if he’d tried anything untoward.

_It wouldn’t be untoward,_ says and incredibly dumb voice in Corbin’s head, _He_ is _your husband._

But Corbin _remembers._ He knows what the oracle said. A monster, feared by mortals and gods alike. He _has_ to keep his guard up.

His husband wakes him with soothing strokes to the temple when he has nightmares. He smiles against Corbin’s forehead when Corbin worms his way closer in his sleep. He is warm, and _soft,_ and every brush of their skin screams _adoration,_ like Corbin has any idea what to do with _that._

Every time Corbin mentions some passing sweet or trinket he misses, when he wakes up there is a new one in the palace, somewhere the butterflies lead him. Corbin knows he should thank him, but it just feels so _embarrassing,_ so- weirdly vulnerable. It’s not like he _asks_ for these things, just mentions them, and then his husband goes and does it all on its own.

Why would he do that? What’s the _catch?_

(There is the smallest, hopeful voice, curled in the hollow of his ribs, who whispers that there is no catch, that nothing is going to go wrong, that finally here is something that is _just Corbin’s_ and _just good,_ and Corbin shoved it deeper and deeper and tries not to stutter the next time he sees his husband.

Well. Not _seeing_ him.)

“Why do you only come at night?”

His husband runs his thumb across Corbin’s shoulder – _When did they get so close?_ He thinks, halfheartedly, because it has been weeks since he really shied away from his husband’s embrace – and hums thoughtfully.

“It’s a test,”

“For who?”

His husband giggles, a little _bop_ lands on Corbin’s nose that makes him flush, and he doesn’t answer.

“You can’t look upon me in the light,” he says gently, “Not till we’ve been married for a year. But… that’s not so bad, is it? You like me well enough in the dark,”

And the truth is… the truth is, Corbin does. His husband is sweet, and kind, and doting, and gives Corbin anything he thinks Corbin _might_ want and hardly asks for anything in return. To hold his hand. To touch his face. Once, a kiss, and Corbin’s heart had pounded like a blacksmith’s hammer until the kiss had landed on his cheek and all he’d felt was disappointed.

It is a strange, lonely existence in the daylight, surrounded by silent butterfly servants and _things_ but not _people_ , but here – here in this windowless room, in this downy bed, in his husband’s hands, Corbin isn’t lonely, or worried, or waiting for anything to go wrong. Nothing ever goes wrong here.

Maybe, just here, in this place, Corbin can relax.

He fumbles in the dark across the blanket, fingertips bumping a chest and up a neck; his husband shivers, and Corbin feels a little _thrill_ of joy in response as he cups his face.

“I do like you,” Corbin says faintly.

“Awww,” croons his husband, “Do you have a crush on me?”

Corbin’s face heats under his teasing, but instead of answering he just pushes himself up on one hand and leans over to kiss him.

It’s- it’s perfect. It’s _too_ perfect, things aren’t just perfect, something _has_ to be about to go wrong-

His husband slides his soft hand to the back of Corbin’s neck and deepens the kisses, and it all falls away. The world is frustrating and unfair and stuff goes wrong constantly and optimism is a joke but this room is not the world, and nothing has ever once gone wrong here.

Corbin falls asleep in his husband’s arms, cherished and safe, and Corbin dreams only of butterflies.

—

There is only one thing that mars Corbin’s happiness here.

He had parted from his mother with bitter looks and more bitter words, left her crying in front of their house to walk here alone. It’s been weeks, maybe months, and no one has come to look for him. He is sure everyone thinks he is dead at the hands of his monster-groom-to-be.

But his husband isn’t a monster, isn’t even slightly unpleasant. He’s wonderful – and the idea that Corbin’s mother is going to spend the rest of her life mourning him while Corbin is perfectly safe and blissfully content leaves a foul taste in his mouth.

It’s the first thing he _actually_ asks for, and for one heart-stopping second, he thinks it’s going to be the first thing to get a ‘no.’

His husband hesitates, squirming a little in a way Corbin now knows means he’s nervous.

“You- you can go visit your mother,” he says, and Corbin relaxes.

“ _But,”_ he continues, anxiously, “You have to _promise_ – don’t. Don’t let her get in your head. Convince you of anything you don’t really want,”

“Like what?” said Corbin incredulously.

His husband wavers again, reaching up to gently press his fingertips to Corbin’s cheek.

“I just don’t want to lose you,” he says softly.

Corbin relaxes, huffing a laugh.

“Of course I’m coming back,” he murmurs, “I- I don’t want to leave you. Not ever,”

It’s so hard to say something so vulnerable, even if Corbin means it, but it’s worth it for the way his husband’s face turns to a smile under Corbin’s fingertips, the way it presses against his mouth.

They kiss firm and easy in the dark, and Corbin lets the hopeful little voice inside speak, even if he can’t bring the words to his mouth.

_I love you, I love you, I love you._

—

Mom screams when she answers the door.

Maybe Corbin should have expected that.

After spending ten minutes on the porch convincing her he isn’t a shade come to send her on an impossible quest to avenge his death, she lets him in. The house is exactly as he left it, including the leaking corner of the roof. His palms itch to fix it, but he won’t be here long enough.

She asks him where he’s been and Corbin tries to keep a level-head about it but – he’s just too _happy._ He can’t help it. By the end of the story he’s _beaming_ , grinning over at her, one hand pressed over his thrumming heart like he’s trying to keep it in his chest, like it’s beating against his ribs trying to escape and fly back home up the mountain.

But after a long, horrible pause, Corbin realizes Mom is not smiling. Not even a little.

“Mom?”

She sits heavily at the table, putting her head in her hands.

“I- _Mom,_ ” he says, a little sharper, “What- what’s wrong?”

“I never should have let you go,”

He bristles a little.

“You didn’t _let_ me do anything. The oracle-”

“Yes, the oracle!” she snaps, “Have you forgotten so fast? _A monstrous creature, feared by mortals and gods alike._ Or do you no longer care _who_ you are playing house with?”

“We aren’t- we aren’t _playing house_ , he’s my husband,”

“What sort of husband is so horrid to look at he will only come to you in the dark?” she retorts, “For a year he says – well, how full of his good food and well-cared for you will be after a year. Much better to eat than when you arrived,”

“Shut up,” he snaps, “Just- shut up, you don’t know what you’re talking about,”

Mom stands abruptly, crossing the room to a drawer. She pulls out a silver knife, a candle, and a flint for lighting it.

“Take these,”

“No,” he snaps.

“Take them,” she says, grabbing his hand and forcibly closing them around the objects, “If you are right, then you will take this candle and look on your husband in its light and he will be nothing frightening – you can live out your days in your strange bliss and be done with the worry,”

She presses the knife into his other hand.

“But if you are _wrong_ ,” she says, “Then better to know before he turns on you, so you can escape. I taught you better than to bet your life on _hope_ , Corbin,”

“It’s not hope, I _know,”_ says Corbin, ragged even as anxiety starts swirling in his stomach.

“Optimism, then,” she says darkly, “Which is worse, and you know it,”

“I don’t want these,”

“Take them anyway,” she snaps, “For your poor, petrified mother’s peace of mind, if nothing else,”

They stare, both of them unyielding, for long moments.

When Corbin leaves his mother’s house, the candle and flint and knife in tow, his bag feels so heavy it’s as though it might drag him right through the earth to Hades.

—

Three days he lasts.

He shoves the candle, flint, and knife under the bed as soon as he gets home and ignores them for the rest of the day.

That night, his husband is so happy to see him, and Corbin is so happy in return that he kisses him before he even speaks, pulling his husband down on top of him and nuzzling his cheek when they break apart.

“Someone missed me,”

“I _did,_ ” says Corbin raggedly, “I did. I missed you so much,”

He’s a warm, solid weight where he stretches across Corbin’s side, tucking his face into Corbin’s neck. He’s a wonder under Corbin’s fingertips, and breath of fresh air after days of anxiety. He’s perfect and he’s _Corbin’s_ , forever.

_I love you,_ but the words are still clogging his throat.

The first day is nothing but bliss. The second is frustration with himself, unable to get his mother’s words out of his mind.

The third day, he breaks.

Just one look, while his husband is fast asleep, just to _prove_ to himself that he’s _right,_ that his husband is no monster, that there is no danger, and Corbin will put this all behind him.

It sounds so logical, when he says it like that.

What a joke.

Corbin gently worms his way out of his husband’s embrace, dropping to the floor. He takes the candle, and the flint, and leaves the knife.

Even if his mother is right, and there’s been some horrible creature sleeping on the other side of the bed from him all these months, well – then it’s a monster Corbin loves, and Corbin’s not going to hurt him.

He crawls around to the other side of the bed. He fumbles the flint once, twice, three times before he successfully lights the candle.

He takes it in his shaking hands, the light yellow and wavering, and stands.

His husband’s eyes are already open. They are not human, but they’re far from monstrous – a blushing rose gold that makes Corbin’s stomach flip even as he takes in that his husband does not look happy.

“You didn’t trust me,” he says sadly.

“I- what?” said Corbin, “No that wasn’t- that wasn’t it-”

His husband rolls over, like he’s going to give him the cold shoulder, which makes horrified tears well in Corbin’s eyes.

But it’s so much worse.

He turns, and it’s like he pulls the world right with him, wrapping it around him like a blanket; the room spins, the ground shaking, and Corbin closes his eyes to the nauseating swirl of colors.

His eyes open.

Everything is gone.

He is alone, on an empty mountaintop, holding a candle dripping hot wax onto his fingers and a flint clenched so tight in his fist it’s cutting his palm.

For the first time in as long as he can remember, Corbin sits down on the hard, cold dirt, and begins to sob.

—

Corbin cries on the ground for hours, cursing his own idiocy, until the sun peeks over the horizon and bathes everything in the same blush-gold of his husband’s eyes right before Corbin lost him forever to his own pessimism.

At some point he’s going to have to return to the village before he starves, but it’s not remotely appealing right now.

Footsteps approach, and Corbin doesn’t bother to look until a shadow is cast across his face, scowling up at whoever decided to bug him in the middle of his well-deserved breakdown.

The same shade of rosy-gold eyes look back at him, and Corbin jolts immediately – but the face is different, rounder, the skin much darker, the hair brilliant gold where his husband’s had been black.

“So,” says the newcomer, “You blew it. Nice going,”

Corbin wants to spit something acidic and biting but nothing comes out – his face just crumbles all over again, buried in his knees and his misery.

The stranger sighs.

“This is not generally how people greet the God of Spring, you know. Even _some deference_ would be an improvement,”

Corbin freezes.

“You’re- what?” he says, strangled.

That gets him an eyebrow raise.

“You didn’t know?”

Corbin just stares, and the man laughs.

“You looked at my brother and _didn’t_ immediately figure out he was the god of love and desire? You must have been pretty far gone,”

He offers his hand, and, insanely, Corbin takes it, letting – letting the God of Spring, Roman, pull him to his feet.

“You know, I was a little offended,” he says, “So I sent Sloane to pick on you a little, make you fall in love with someone horribly ugly, but-”

He shrugs, bopping Corbin’s nose in exactly the same way his husband – _Sloane? God of Love Sloane?_ Corbin needs to lay down – had these past months.

“Instead he came back besotted, which didn’t help,” Roman continues dryly, “But oh, no, Sloane can’t fall for your pretty face like everyone else. He has to visit me crooning about how _practical_ and _grounded_ you are,”

He tossed his head, huffing.

“Hence, the plot,” he says, gesturing around them at what once was a palace, a home, “You made it halfway, which was more than I was expecting of you. Mortals are quite impatient,”

“Gee, thanks,” Corbin snaps through gritted teeth.

Roman crossed his arms.

“I could smite you, you know,” he says, reasonably.

Corbin can’t bring himself to care.

“You didn’t see his face,” he says, stupidly, “If you had, you already would have,”

Roman looks surprised. He taps a finger to his lips, humming in thought.

“… Okay,” he says finally, waving Corbin forward. “Come on. You get a do-over,”

“I- _what?_ Excuse me?”

“A _do-over,_ mortal,” says Roman, “I was _going_ to smite you for breaking my brother’s heart, but considering you look equally miserable I don’t think it’ll do any good. And-”

His face softens.

“I did give my Logan a second chance,” he says, “Some people deserve them, I think,”

Roman begins to make his way down the mountain.

“So come. Unless you’d rather weep up here than get your husband back,”

He turns away, and after only a moment of hesitation, Corbin follows.

—

“You want me to bring you _what?_ ”

“Fire,” says Roman, examining his nails, “Wrapped in paper. I don’t particularly care how you do it,”

“You can’t wrap fire in anything, let alone paper, it would burn,”

“I’m aware,” says Roman dryly, “You do get how this works, don’t you? Have you heard of Hercules? It isn’t supposed to be _easy_ ,”

Of course Corbin’s heard the stories. But he’s _not_ Hercules, he’s not anyone, he was just barely handsome enough to catch a god’s attention and then stupid enough to lose it. He’s under no illusions he’s anything special.

So he’s not going to brute-force or magic his way out of this. He’s going to have to cheat.

“Wrapped” is vague. Maybe it doesn’t have to be touching the fire? Like a box of paper around the flame, in a regular torch – and maybe if he also put something in between paper-

He finds a shallow tin cup, and put the stupid, _cursed_ candle in it while trying not to dig his nails into his palms at the sight of it. It’s the work of an afternoon to find long, flexible twigs to build a frame, and then get paper to carefully paste and pin into place.

It’s pretty, he supposes, the glowing lantern he brings to Roman the next day with the lit candle inside, but he’s not really concerned with its looks.

“Fire, wrapped in paper,” he says seriously.

Roman smiles.

“I think I like you, mortal,”

—

Corbin clutches the empty bottle in his fist, glaring down the cliff into the treacherous river.

Gods are funny like that – “I like you” doesn’t necessarily preclude them from trying to kill you.

He can’t climb down to fill the bottle, that’s for sure. The stone is washed smooth and wet – he’d slip as soon as he tried.

But there are trees up here – old, heavy pines that can carry his weight. He’s never actually seen anyone climb a mountain, but he knows there is a way to do this. He just has to figure it out.

He goes to the nearest town that isn’t his – because if he sees his mother right now he will definitely say some very unpleasant things he only half means – and gets as much rope as he can carry. Two days he spends on the cliff-side, sleeping in restless fits and bursts, missing Sloane’s arms around him desperately and waking up to fiddle with loops and knots and testing stones until finally, he thinks he has it.

It’s the most nerve-wracking thing, tied with walking up the mountain the first time with wedding clothes and a weapon. If he slips once, made one knot too loose, the rope will give way with him on it and he will fall to a watery death.

_Gods and their quests_ , he thinks bitterly.

Not Sloane though. Sloane had asked him for something so easy it makes Corbin want to tear his own hair, nothing more than to just _trust him_ for a year, and Corbin couldn’t even do that. He’d asked for optimism, which should have been easy, not knowing that what made it impossible was Corbin himself.

_Focus!_ He snaps internally when his foot slips. He can feel sorry for himself later, when he has his damn husband back.

He rappels down the side of the canyon, one rope tied firmly around his hips and the other he’s gradually letting slide through his grip, until finally he reaches the water and can lean over and fill the bottle.

He corks it and lets out some of his frustration jamming the cork in firmly by banging it against the rock. Now comes the real hard part – climbing back up.

When he finally reaches the top, after starting and stopping and swearing up a storm the whole time, he clamors over the edge and lays down in the dirt, his legs still dangling over the cliff, sweaty and annoyed and ready to bite Roman’s infuriatingly perky head off, god or not.

“Did you get it?”

Corbin retrieves the bottle from his belt and shoves it in Roman’s direction. He doesn’t speak, because he might curse him out, and Corbin has more than two brain cells to rub together.

Roman looks genuinely impressed.

“Okay,” he says, “Meet me here tomorrow,”

“To do what-?”

But Roman is already gone, because of course he is, and Corbin resists the urge to scream in frustration.

It’s going to be a long night.

—

Again, Corbin doesn’t go back to his own village. There would be a bed there, yes, but Corbin isn’t going to be able to look at his mother until he has Sloane back, not without saying something he’ll regret.

So he goes to the same one he got the rope and the paper from, makes himself as clean and presentable as he can. He sleeps – if the half-awake anxiety he settles into can be called sleep – in a field of soft grass, and with the dawn he makes his way back to the spot he’d left Roman.

Roman is waiting, resplendent – nothing like the simpler, floral printed clothing he was wearing yesterday. He’s draped in fine silks, and an abundance of jewelry, and quite suddenly, Corbin remembers what time of year it is.

“Good morning,” Corbin says warily.

“Good morning, brother-in-law,” Roman responds, teasing.

Corbin grimaces, but doesn’t correct him.

“Well,” he continues, bracing his hands on his knees, “Last test,”

“Last?” says Corbin, standing up straighter.

“Yep – last one,” says Roman, “And then all will be forgiven, and I’ll send you back to my brother,”

Swallowing, Corbin nods firmly, bracing himself.

“Come to the underworld with me,”

Corbin’s blood freezes.

Roman’s expression doesn’t waver an inch.

“I- what?” Corbin chokes.

“You made it six months in wedded bliss,” says Roman, “And I’m leaving now, on my way to the west, for autumn in 3 days. Sixth months underground would certainly make up for the six months you failed to last?”

Corbin stares.

Corbin isn’t a god – that long in the underworld will surely kill him. The only person he’s ever heard of coming back was a poet named Virgil, who’d spoken sweetly enough of his love to convince Roman’s husband to give him back, but-

Six months? It will kill him. There’s no other possible outcome. It’s a fool’s errand, it’s for-sure _doom_ , there’s no way he’ll survive it.

Roman still hasn’t broken eye contact.

_He knows,_ thinks Corbin, _he knows it will kill me._

It was never about getting Sloane back, he realizes. This is a punishment. He’s being mocked, and now he’s being put to death.

_Unless_.

Corbin grits his teeth against the hope automatically – but where has ignoring it got him so far?

Unless it’s not a trick. Unless Roman – who’s husband _is_ king of the underworld – has some way to keep him alive down there. Unless he’s sincere, and if Corbin can just hold out for six miserable months, he’ll see Sloane again.

“Okay,” he says quietly, “I’ll come with you,”

Roman smiles, the softest and most sincere Corbin has seen so far.

“I knew you would,” he says, “Go home, Corbin, Son of Cleo,”

Corbin jerks, startled.

Roman reaches into his rich clothing, pulling out a small box and presses it into Corbin’s hand.

“Go _home_ ,” he repeats, “To your mountain and your husband. He’s waiting you know,”

“I- what- _waiting?”_

“Do you really think Sloane is the type to hold a grudge?” says Roman, “Because he isn’t – even when he should. I had to make sure you were worthy _,_ and also weren’t going to go breaking his heart again,”

He gestures to Corbin.

“But you are resourceful, and clever, and very brave. And willing to spend six months with no one but me and my husband for company, which alone should get you commended. I’ve been told we’re nauseating to be around,”

He pats Corbin on the shoulder.

“I can think of no better groom for my brother; so go home to your husband. Show him the little box, when you get there, he’ll know what to do with it,”

“But he _left,_ ” blurts Corbin, strangled.

Roman startles.

“He _left,_ ” he continues, voice cracking, “I hurt him, I know, and maybe I deserved it but he left me _alone_ on the mountain and I _waited_ and…”

Roman doesn’t speak.

“… What if I mess up again-” says Corbin weakly, “-and I lose him forever?”

Roman smiles softly.

“You just have to have some faith, Corbin,”

He pats Corbin on the shoulder as he passes.

“Don’t worry; you’ll get there,”

His hand drops, and there is a flash of white-gold light behind Corbin – when he turns, Roman is already gone.

—

Corbin has nothing with him except for the clothes on his back and the box in his pocket as he walks up the mountain. It feels terrifyingly familiar.

He crests a corner, and everything is just as it was.

The silver walls, the gemstone gravel – he thinks he can even see a few butterflies circling the upper windows.

He takes off at a dead sprint.

Corbin slams into the front door, throwing it open and calling out at the top of his lungs–

“ _Sloane!”_ he calls, waving off the butterflies irritably, “Sloane! _Sloane_ , where are you?”

No voice responds, and anxiety claws at Corbin’s ribs and he darts through all the rooms, finally coming on their bedroom door and throwing himself against it so it opens.

Sloane is standing there, a sad, sheepish expression on his face.

“I know you’re mad, honey,” says Sloane, which makes no sense, “But-”

Corbin crosses the room in three strides and kisses his husband full on the mouth.

Sloane’s hands fly up to cradle Corbin’s face immediately, his voice a pleased little hum of surprise, and Corbin never wants to do anything but kiss him again. Never want to _be without him_ again, ever, would happily never leave this room for the rest of his mortal life if Sloane would stay here with him.

Sloane breaks the kiss with a soft, wet noise, looking surprised and delighted by this turn of events, and Corbin speaks before Sloane can even open his mouth.

“I love you,” he blurts, “I love you so much, I’m sorry, please don’t leave again,”

“Never,” says Sloane reverently, “Never, my soul, _I’m_ sorry, I shouldn’t have left you like that but I was so hurt you didn’t trust me and- and then I should have come after you to bring you home from your mother’s, but I was so nervous-”

“Wait, what?” says Corbin, “What- from my mother?”

Sloane blinks in confusion.

“… Yes?”

“No,” says Corbin, frowning, “I wasn’t with my mother. I was with _your_ brother, doing a bunch of quests to prove my _worthiness,”_

Sloane’s mouth drops open in adorable shock.

“He did not!”

“He didn’t _tell you?”_

“Oh, sweetest, did he hurt you?” says Sloane, running his hands up and down Corbin’s arms in a way that is so clearly _not_ feeling him up but still makes Corbin feel slightly warm.

“No, he didn’t,” says Corbin, brushing off the hands so he can hold them instead, “He did, uh, give me something though. Told me to give it to you,”

Sloane gives him an endearing little head tilt, and Corbin’s heart stutters in his chest. He wonders if Sloane can hear it as he reaches into his pocket and passes over the small, gold box.

Sloane keeps hold of one of Corbin’s hands, like he can’t bear to let go – and can’t Corbin relate; he never wants to stop touching Sloane as long as there’s the slightest chance he might disappear again.

Sloane flicks the box open with one hand, gasping at whatever glowing object is inside.

He looks up at Corbin with something like _hope._

“I love you,” he says quietly.

“I love you, too,” Corbin replies immediately, because he’s never letting it go unsaid again.

“How much?” says Sloane, teasing, but also with some strange wobble in his voice.

“I- don’t know?” says Corbin weakly, “A lot. Too much, probably,”

“Why too much?”

“Because- because-”

Sloane squeezes his hand, and all the self-consciousness falls away.

“It’s so much,” Corbin whispers, “I don’t know how to do it. I don’t know how to love someone like this,”

Sloane raised Corbin’s fingers to his lips, smiling softly.

“What if we’re in it together, though?” he murmurs.

Corbin laughs weakly, squeezing the hand in his, and leans over to peck his husband on the lips.

“Sounds perfect,” he says, “That’s all I want,”

“Even if it’s forever?”

“ _Especially_ if it’s forever,” Corbin replies, voice raw.

And Sloane lights up, like a blushing dawn all his own, leaning down to kiss Corbin so fiercely gold glitters behind his eyelids.

Sloane has pulled whatever glowing object was in the box out, and now he presses it between Corbin’s palms, closing his own hands over them.

“ _Forever-_ forever,” he says solemnly, “Only if you want to though,”

Corbin stares down at the little gold glow peeking out between their fingers.

“Logan gave my brother a few freebies,” Sloane laughs wetly, “Says it keeps him from arguing about every single pair of unfairly separated lovers that comes through,”

“This can’t be real,” Corbin breathes.

“It is,” says Sloane, kissing his temple, “Do you trust me?”

Corbin swallows.

“Yes,” he says softly.

“Then just relax,”

_Relax,_ he says, like Corbin’s ever been relaxed a day in his life, like Sloane’s not about to do some kind of insane god magic on him and _make Corbin immortal,_ like Corbin could possibly be _calm_ right now.

Sloane presses his mouth to Corbin’s, and Corbin melts.

He doesn’t know how much of the heat is the magic radiating from his palms and how much is the kiss Sloane presses against his lips, warming him all the way down to his feet. He only knows that he feels like he’s melting and spinning apart into a thousand stars all at once, like he’s fragmenting into beams of brilliant sunlight.

For a fraction of a moment, it’s terrifying, and the cynical voice that is still so loud says that Corbin has made a horrible mistake.

But Sloane squeezed his hand, breaking into bright light beside him, the two of them mingling into one resplendent light show, and the voice is quiet before it even finishes speaking.

Two immortals kneel on the floor of their bedroom, shining and in love, and the room is so full of joy, there is no room for anything else.

**Author's Note:**

> you can also find me over on tumblr at [@tulipscomeinallsortsofcolors](tulipscomeinallsortsofcolors.tumblr.com)


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